


Meticulous

by laEsmeralda



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25360585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda
Summary: A woman in Sherlock's circles arranges an anonymous assignation with him, which requires extreme planning.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Other(s)
Kudos: 14





	Meticulous

_Meticulous. Elaborate. Absurd. Necessarily duplicitous._ Mental narration follows her.

The woman, well aware that she isn’t _The Woman_ , scrambles her syntax as she types. Doing so presents a particularly challenging task if she wants him to be intrigued, to answer. Pleading code, she borrows phrases from poets, crediting them—he despises plagiarism. 

He replies. They exchange. She expresses her purpose, directly.

Holmes’ equally direct reply does not question her stated desire for a single exchange of sexual athleticism. He accepts her attraction to a visible surface of intellect and comeliness in due course, without comment. This neither surprises nor dissuades her. As anticipated, he does not request her photograph. 

Even so, she restates her need for anonymity; she cannot risk disclosing her identity. Hence, darkness, a blindfold for him, and she will not speak. 

She proposes a temporary rented flat for the security of said identity—no hotel staff or cameras can intrude. It will be swept for electronics. In turn, he will be assured his that his work and partner will be kept clear if anonymity fails. 

Safe sex will be observed (de rigueur).

The true problem isn’t her celebrity or notoriety. He knows her. She must take pains to strip away anything recognizable. Without sight or voice, he will focus more on scent, touch.

She eats differently spiced foods for a couple of days, things she doesn’t like. The morning of, she smokes a single Galoises, trying not to choke on it. The unlikeable smell will fade but the distinctly strong brand will exude its residue from her pores over the hours to come, interfering with other scents. She places the remainder of the pack in a plastic bag that holds the costume so that the tobacco redolence will permeate.

An early afternoon appointment at a salon where she would never ordinarily go results in unfamiliar but light product scents and elaborate French braids, hair twined and coiled tightly back. She takes a body scrub, a massage with a French basil oil she doesn’t use and that lingers after she showers. Her nails are retouched with a clear, textured finish, giving them a mildly rough feel, easily removed without telltale residue. A small butterfly bandage for cuts covers a raised mole—rectangular should misdirect from circular.

Sitting for light makeup—only for confounding purposes—she once again questions the foolhardiness of the entire endeavor. Yet, she must persist. Sherlock and Joan are leaving New York, embarking on another chapter far away. She is out of time and she is unwilling to let this opportunity go.

When she dresses, it is in a combination of brand new and thrift store clothing purchased by a shopper without her guidance. She carries no personal possessions into the borrowed flat, only the burner phone with which she has been texting him. She has taken care to place it for two hours in the plastic bag with the cigarette pack.

She waits in the dark so that her eyes will have adjusted. His will not. A laser-cut latex mask feels bizarre, cloying, against her cheeks. She’s aware that her pulse is fast and also that her thighs are becoming wet. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, following this animal need into an abyss. She is likely to be discovered. More disappointingly, they could be interrupted by an interesting case at any moment and she’ll never have the opportunity again.

Holmes makes more noise than necessary keying in and hanging up his coat, ostensibly for the purpose of not startling her. She hears him wash his hands at the kitchen sink, taking enough time to have waited for hot water. It makes her smile, the warming of hands. He is thoroughly unmannered but, as it turns out, not inconsiderate.

His frame silhouettes in the bedroom doorway for the brief moment before he closes the door behind as he was instructed. She can’t help but shudder as she slips a new silk scarf from her pocket.

“Hello,” he greets her, simply. “I understand that you will not speak, and I hope you will not mind that I do. If it becomes tiresome, simply place your fingers on my lips.”

While his sight is beginning to adjust, she approaches him, touches his shoulder to orient him before tying the blindfold around his eyes. She uses an ordinary square knot and ensures its snugness.

He waits, hands at his sides. That surprises her. She reacts with the most uncharacteristic thing she can imagine doing, touching his inner thigh and sliding to cup him, finding him at the ready. 

Softly, he clears his throat. “Difficult not to anticipate,” he says, apologetically, adding a shrug, “a curious scenario, a keen mind.”

She squeezes gently, evoking a quiet huff of breath. In fantasy, he has been better endowed than men generally have the right to be, and if reality is somewhat normalized, she’s nevertheless delighted. Her hands slip upward, finding his shirt buttons one by one, bottom to top. 

Sherlock’s hands cup her elbows, fingertips curling against her inner arms. His lips come to hover at her neck, canny in space despite the blindfold. She arches into the warm breath until skin meets skin, and it is all she can do not to vocalize the starburst of connection. Unlike herself, he smells like himself. She presses her face to his chest, breathing him in, rubbing her cheek on his skin. 

His fingers slide up her arms, ghost her shoulders and neck, trace the whorls of her braids. She knows his nimble mind is forming a picture, which is why he mustn’t be allowed to touch her face with his hands. He doesn’t try. She does, eventually, touch his—brow, long nose, jaw and cheek, tipping his face so that she can bring their lips together. As the kiss grows from tentative to impassioned, it becomes more difficult to stay quiet. He is not. More than anything else, that enflames her. He is typically reserved, precise, efficient in his energy. Hearing and feeling him groan into her mouth has her on the verge of orgasm. This is also uncharacteristic. 

She strips his shirt off his shoulders and moves to his belt. He hasn’t yet touched her past arms and head. She takes his hands and guides them to fastenings; he proves steady but eager in his task. When they are naked, she nudges him toward the bed. He moves surely, like someone who often practices moving without sight. He eases to his back, which also makes her smile. He is exerting the utmost consideration. 

Even in the dimmest light, she admires his muscular form, unusual for the late forties. She traces lines—demarcations, scars, tattoos she knows to be there, exploring them as though entirely new. It won’t give her away, as there are numerous photos from the boxing gym online and he is well-aware of that, perhaps vainly so.

She discerns that he is quite taken off guard when she mouths his cock. She revels for several minutes in the various sounds she can cause him to make. She will not allow him to reciprocate, having begged off in advance saying that she does not like to receive. In reality, she would very much like to receive but knows that no amount of preparation could eliminate that source of essential scent. Not when she is so aroused. In fact, they are on a time clock already. His sense of smell is renowned to be unusually sensitive. It won’t be long before her arousal overtakes any masking from soap and cosmetics chosen not to overwhelm or put him off.

The condom is on with a minimum fuss and she very nearly breaks silence as she eases down onto him. Such a silly thing to crave until caution goes to the wind in a gambit like this. 

His hands settle onto her hips, hers onto his shoulders. She only moves against him a dozen times or so and despite trying not to, she comes, struggling to breathe quietly through the convulsions. He exclaims, arching up, helping make the most of it, then settling her against his chest as she stills on the outside, still quaking. 

“I fear that you’ve done all the careful work before I arrived,” he chides with a smile in his voice. She starts to move, to try to reverse their position for him, but he resists, shushing her. He holds her firmly against him and his hips rise and fall, rolling like the sea under her. She surrenders to the motion, listening to his breathing gradually growing harsh, marveling at how he awakens her again, and just as he thrusts upward into climax, she bears down into her own. 

She has disengaged, resting beside him, and fights tears. No doubt a physiological reaction to the rarity of coming twice in fifteen minutes. Possibly also a reaction to knowing that the all-too-hasty engagement is ending. To linger would provide too much opportunity for the detective he cannot suppress. 

He sighs, “I want more. To hear your voice. To taste you. I believe I have additional skills you would enjoy. I’d love to entwine with you in any of a number of permutations.” A hint of low growl tinges his voice. “But I will respect our agreed ground rules. Just know that if you find yourself willing to trust me, contact me again.” He squeezes her shoulder, moves away to find his clothing without be benefit of sight, and exits the bedroom. She hears him showering, also as instructed. He cannot be allowed to leave with any traces of her to ponder. 

In perhaps ten minutes, she hears the front door. She does weep then, long and hard, because she won’t accept his offer and she wants so much more. But she will remember. It was worth it. 

Exhausted, she briefly naps, then begins the laborious process of unwinding all traces of subterfuge. Life goes on in their overlapping worlds and she cannot risk that kinked hair or a bit of polish or perfume will give her away at a crime scene. 

Within a few interactions over the next week, she is certain that she has gotten away with it. Indeed, life goes on.  
*******

Joan is taping photos above the mantel when an instinct makes her turn toward the crate from which a seated Sherlock has been sorting and selecting more photos to hand her. 

Their eyes lock. His pupils are blown. He has been caught thinking about sex. _With her._ His mouth quirks.

“Dammit.” She snaps a page at him in frustration. “Have you known the whole time?” It has been ten days since the assignation. 

He shakes his head sharply. “Your misdirection techniques were superior. The braids and the French tobacco were _particularly_ inspired. I would have no reason to even begin with a data set that contained you, even tangentially.” He thrusts the papers in his lap aside, his brows knit, chin forward. “But how could you imagine that I do not know you to the smallest detail?” His voice rasps more than usual but it is not plainly accusatory.

“To the best of my knowledge, you’ve not previously had occasion to observe my _vagina_ ,” she retorts, turning back to the mantel. She hasn’t blushed in many years, but she’s doing it now, her life—their lives—suddenly sprawling in awkward disarray. It embarrasses her more that she feels shame when he does not.

“That’s not the sort of detail—” His sentence ends in frustration. She feels him approach and she tries not to flee. “Joan,” he says softly, close to her ear, “I know your very breath, your heartbeat. I know how you feel in my arms. The varying pressures of your fingertips. How you move. You tried valiantly, but once I could feel and hear you breathing….” He pauses and she doesn’t fill the silence. “I have wanted to honor the boundaries you set. Yet, it proves difficult.”

“You’re otherwise fantastic at compartmentalization.” Joan doesn’t mean to sound so harsh.

“Have I treated you differently this past week?”

She thinks about it. “You wouldn’t.” 

“If I may, we’ve never been sexual together precisely because we suspected that it could not be a one-off between us. We are serious people with very different approaches to sexual relationships, and yes, that will lead to conflict. But we have navigated together lives that are rife with conflict—sharing work, a home, cooking, bees, experiments, parenting of sorts, even… apparent death,” he dares to speak of the one thing for which she barely forgave him. 

He’s radiating familiar heat, he runs so hot for a human. She wishes, as she so often does of late, that she could lean back and that they could just _be_ with one another, physically comforting. “Sex is a cleansing activity for you, it isn’t only that for me.” Even though he knows this about her, it is difficult to admit.

“Says the person who pulled off the shortest, most _sporting_ encounter I’ve ever had.”

She laughs, suddenly, at the idea in light of his, well, extensive history, and finally turns to face him. “Weeks of planning, hours and hours of ridiculous preparation, approximately nineteen minutes together in the bedroom. And what, eight minutes or less of successful disguise?” 

At once, he wears an expression is of suppressed mischief. “I appreciate that you left me with such brief and effective material to recall at will.” He sobers. “But if you wish, I’ll entomb it.” He is referring to a mausoleum in his memory palace. There’s another brief silence between them. “I hope that you don’t wish it, but I will obey.”

The idea of him _obeying_ is so unlikely as to be comical, yet she believes him. 

His fingertips graze her jaw. Sherlock’s eyes touch hers, then focus on her mouth. She realizes that in all of their years so closely interacting, he has never looked at her lips, specifically, for long enough to be noticed. She feels it as though he were touching her intimately. 

A long few moments later, he continues, “As a non-religious person, I cannot wax spiritual and yet I have experienced a profound connection to everything in the past several days. The extent of feeling is shocking. To have described the complexity of our prior relationship as platonic would not do it justice, as I have tried to say at other times, in other ways. But in the moment of recognition, beyond surprise, perhaps admiration of subterfuge, I felt so _grateful_. I hadn’t known—perhaps admitted—what I wanted.”

As she so often does in the wake of his rare and usually eloquent emotional admissions, she is silent, giving space, recognition. He does not seem uncomfortable, an impulse to smile flickers at the edge of his mouth. 

Finally, she says, “All the times you invaded my bedroom with your impatience, mischief, or need to control the moment, you never once did anything remotely sexual.” 

He nods. “Unlike with so many of my impulses, I have always been a careful mediator of my actions in terms of a woman’s sense of safety. My mother’s experiences affected me. Even heroin didn’t change that. I would never want you to—” 

She intercepts his next words with her lips, swallows them, assures him with her kiss that she has never felt that almost universal female reaction of fear that a man might transgress. As his arms come around her in a fierce embrace, she realizes that he’s freshly cleanshaven, and she starts to giggle. 

He breaks free of her lips but keeps close, doesn’t prompt her.

She nuzzles his jaw. “No scrub.”

He clears his throat. “For several days now. You simply overlooked it.”

“How thoughtful.”

“To the contrary, I’m a rank opportunist.”

She can feel his smile against her cheek. “Well, then, your bed or mine?”  
*******


End file.
